Facebook Protocol

Okay, so what am I supposed to do when I am unfriended by someone? SOMEONE I HAVEN'T EVER MET? My husband's cousin friend requested me many, many months ago, and I accepted. I will admit I was kind of judgy of her posts because they were always, always, always glass-half-empty kind of posts. But I never commented on them, or sent her a note stating I thought she needed to look on the bright side. 'Cause nothing is more irritating to a pessimist than being told to look on the bright side.

Anyway...

I spoke to her mother on the phone recently, and it got me thinking that I hadn't seen any of her updates in awhile. I thought maybe she hadn't been posting, or that maybe with the Facebook re-design I hadn't flagged her as someone from whom I'd like to see updates. Whatever.

I did a search on my friends, and nope, she didn't show up. So then I wondered if she'd deleted her account. I went to my sister-in-law's Facebook page, and this cousin-in-law WAS THERE.

Weird, right? I mean, it's not like Facebook relationships really require tending of any sort. So now I"m wondering -- in as benign a way as possible -- why, if she was paring down her Facebook friends, I didn't make the cut?

Seriously, I'm not stressing about it. Just struck me as odd. Though now I'll have a conversation crutch if we happen to meet. "So, uh, nice to meet you. Hey, why'd you unfriend me?"

That'll be a hoot a the next family reunion.

You Load Sixteen Tons and What Do You Get...

See, that thar title is apt, APT I say, because I have two nuggets of info to share that relate. Firstly, I head back to work next week.

Urgh.

Not "urgh" because I don't like my job. I do, actually. Plus, I'm a boss, so it helps that I can delegate work upon my return. "Urgh" because I will actually need to be washed, dressed, brushed, and out the door by an actual time. I cannot begin to explain how unfathomable that is to me right now. It's 11:08 a.m., and I am STILL in my pajamas and unshowered. Lump in the fact that the rhythm of my household management will be totally disrupted, and you can see the source of the "urgh."

But I am returning to work. I like that people think Super Ninja and I are rolling in dough enough to ask if I'm planning on staying at home. Yeah, not so much. We had enough dubloons for me to stay at home without pay for half of my leave, but I prefer to live life off of our income, not off of our savings.

Part the second of this missive is the glorious announcement that I have shed my baby weight. NOW all I need to do is work off the "I stayed at home for three months and ate waaaaaaaaay more brownies than I should have" weight.

Something I Didn't Understand Before I Became a Mother

Know what I didn't fully comprehend before I had children? Just how fully these tiny people PWN you. And I don't mean in the Ron Howardy, "Gee, the kids are constantly asking me for juice/grapes/stories/books" kind of way. Chock-full-of-corn as it sounds, these babies of mine thoroughly own my heart.

Oh my God, you have NO IDEA how hard that was to write. I feel like I'm turning into a Hummel figurine. I have squishy feelings, OKAY?

From the moment the Older Boy was born, my family has invaded my past, present, and future. In doing so, I've been forced to live there a little. Not because I'm the Terminator. Although that would be intriguing. Let me explain what I mean...

Regarding the present: almost every decision my husband and I make is done with respect to what's best for the kids: where we live, how we spend money, what car to buy, what to have for lunch (seriously -- if the Older Boy needs a sandwich and we have two slices of bread, Super Ninja's packing leftovers). That's one way the kids sit on my brain. The other way is just enjoying raising them and the things they do. Like when my kindergartner decides to wear rain boots to school because they are part of his superhero costume and they will make him feel awesome all day...or when my three-year-old daughter says "whobody put this here?" (there's somebody, anybody, nobody, so why not whobody?)...or when my two-month-old wakes up and beams a smile at me... All of that fills me with joy.

(Wow, I am just losing ALL of my hipster cred. Oh well, guess there wasn't that much to lose. I mean, I do Beyonce's "Single Ladies" dance with the Girl. One of us is usually wearing a tutu when this happens. It's not like we're swaying to Kings of Leon around here.)

Losing my focus...

The point is, everyone understands this part of parenthood. It's not hard to wrap your head around the fact that you are responsible for your kids' well-being, that they will do some cute stuff (and some not so cute stuff), that all of it is a lot of work, that you'll be tired, but mostly happy.

But my brain does this weird multi-time-and-place thing. I"m surprised I haven't given myself an aneurysm. I flash to the past to compare my childhood to the one I am giving my children, trying to replicate what was good, trying to change what was not so good. Ultimately, I feel like I understand my parents much, much, much better than I did back then. And I forgive them for a lot more.

Then I flash to the future, and imagine all the possibilities for joy and pain that await my children. Swimming and movies and graduations and college and dating and marriage or holy orders or neither and maybe possibly children of their own and ultimately adventure, lots of adventure... I don't let my mind dwell there too often, because I don't want to force them on a certain path (or invite a fight with me about what they will and won't do with their lives). But I'll hang out with them and my mind will snap to twenty years from now and envision what it'll be like to talk about a movie or politics or whatever with them...

I'm not naive; I know that they will drive me up a wall almost as much as they delight me. My five-year-old already thinks he has the world pretty well figured out, so that'll be fun when he's a teenager.

This forecasting, though...I think this is where fear starts. Worry, in it's milder form. That's the dark side of having a family: the possibility that it would be fractured or lost. See, I have expectations that these children, and my husband, will be a part of my life until my life is done. And if that did not happen, my heart would simply break.

Don't worry, I'm not going all post-partum depression on you. I am like, 98% in the happy. However, I think it's normal to spend some time wondering about how you would react to devastation, like your kid or your husband getting hurt, or sick, or dying. I'm not saying I've gotten funeral planning brochures or anything creepy like that. It's more like a role-playing exercise. Like fire drills. If you imagined that say, your kid fell down a flight of stairs, you might react to it actually happening more quickly.

If you find that you imagine a situation in which you cause these things, though, or sort of wish they would happen so that you can get some sympathy, please go here.

So, there it is: these children, by virtue of being born, have already left their sticky hand prints all over every part of my life. No matter what happens, they are inextricably entwined with who I am. I am still me, the goober who loves Scrabble, staying up late, movies, and being slightly left-of-center. But I'm braided together with these lives, first my husband's, then my children's. Maybe we're programmed this way as humans to ensure survival, but man, it's a doozy when you feel the power of it.

I Have a Blog?

Yes, yes, I know, my postings have been rather sparse. I think it's because I've been posting status updates on my Facebook account. I gave Twitter a shot, but I find the 144 character limit daunting. It got to a point where I thought if I couldn't whittle something down to 144 characters, then it was too dense. I think this is also what people feel about the healthcare reform bill. We will eventually get to a point in society where we will only use the pain tolerance chart to communicate our feelings about something. Because anything else would be excessive, no?

Anyway.

I am inspired to write when I am challenged. And for the past two months I have been home with Baby Boy, so the challenges? Not really there. Many of you are thinking, "Herm. Isn't a newborn challenging? Especially when you have a 5-year-old and a 3-year-old?" I guess it is, but dudes, I have GOT this. Older Boy is in kindergarten, the Girl is in daycare, so it's just me and the babe. His demands are easily met, and then he goes back to sleep. Easy-peasy. I've built shelves, tested out recipes, rearranged furniture, and corresponded old skool style.

There will be a deluge of annoyance when I return to work. Mostly because I don't control the environment Stromboli-style, as I do at home. Ugh, I can already feel my hackles rising. The meetings, the e-mails, the meetings... 'Til, then, though, I'll be the overlord of my own little 10,000 square foot patch of earth.

What My Facebook Status Updates Would Have Been If I Weren't Afraid of Offending Some Delicate Sensibilities

I think the title pretty well explains this post... Not such a biggie for my friends to read this, but I have some family who might think I was veering into post-partum depression. Or would call my parenting into question. But semi-anonymity is rampant here, so enjoy!

• Here's my doppelganger for Doppelganger Week. We are twinsies not so much in the face, but elsewhere. You go ahead and guess. Kudos to Ms. Hendricks, though, because I don't think she is currently breastfeeding.
• Baby X totally whizzed all over one of the adults in this house. And it wasn't me! Current score: Mommy, 1, Daddy, 3. This is not a game that anyone wants to win..
• MCV has a sharp pain under her left eye. Unless Baby X developed a vicious right hook and slugged her during one of her nursing sessions last night, she thinks she may have to investigate the possibility that this guy has taken up residence in their house.
• MCV has been watching waaaaaaaay too much true crime television. She is worried that she is damaging her newborn by exposing him to all the horror life has to offer at such a tender age.
• Gigantic bosom + breastfeeding = ridiculously difficult to find a nursing bra with the appropriate coverage and support. To paint a picture for you, it is stunning that I can walk upright. Thank goodness for these fine folks. I mean, REALLY, why aren't there more stores like this? I've got a YEAR or so of this ahead of me. Support is clutch. We're talking cantilevering here, not just fancy straps. Once again, I am grateful to be alive in the age of the interwebs.
• MCV is wondering why the hospital didn't send her home with a couple of pairs of these? They tossed a bunch of the other recovery supplies her way, so why not something that you can't buy at the local drug store?

Uh, so that's it for now.

Getting Back Into the Swing of Things

Wow, so that happened. What do I mean by "that?" Well, there was Christmas, and New Year's. Oh, and I had a baby.

It's been a very busy six weeks.

I'm officially a mother of three now, which is just crazy. Not crazy because I've had a tough road to hoe or anything. It's not like anyone's going to make a Lifetime movie about me and how, through the power of motherhood, got my life on the straight-and-narrow. With only a few indiscretions, I've lived at the corner of Straight and Narrow my whole life. Nah, the crazy for me is that many of my thoughts seem way teenagery. Seems weird that someone who gets all kinds of excited about a breakfast of toaster strudel Diet Coke is actually in the process of raising children.

Well, I guess right now Super Ninja and I are raising two children. We are teaching the Boy (who will be known henceforth as the Older Boy) and the Girl all kinds of lovely stuff, like doing as they are asked, not speaking sarcastically to us (even though I secretly love five-year-old sarcasm, just not when it's directed at me when I've made a request to get the dirty socks off of the sofa), and responsible homework habits.

The Younger Boy (i.e., our newborn) is in the eat-sleep-fill-a-diaper stage of life. No "raising" occurs during this stage, right? Although, if you'll allow me to get squishy on you, the Younger Boy is learning that he can always, always depend on Milk Woman and Diaper Man, as I like to refer to the adults in this house...

Anyhoo, I wanted to get the blog announcement out of the way so that y'all aren't totally confused when I start posting about psychedelic yellow diapers this kid produces. Be ye warned, those are on the horizon, but I have to go attend to a squalling infant presently.

See ya!

T-Minus Six-ish Weeks and Counting...

I say six-ish because my OB/GYN mentioned something about inducing me a week early. See, my second pregnancy ended in my water breaking at home at midnight (surprise!) six days before my due date, and my daughter being born three hours later in a different hospital than I intended, by a different doctor, which in turn resulted in no epidural or anything like that. Did I mention that she weighed over eight pounds?

I think I still have a little PTSD about that situation. One thing I learned with the Girl's birth is that "water breaking" doesn't sufficiently cover what went down. You've probably seen a movie or television show where a woman's water breaks, right? You hear a little spatter, and the mama-to-be seems surprised. Oh my, she seems to be thinking, did I just wet myself? Or was it something else?

THERE IS NO WAY THESE TWO THINGS COULD BE CONFUSED.

You know those images of a bunch of kids who open up a fire hydrant in the depths of a gritty summer? THAT is what it is like. A tsunami of liquid evacuating from your body. And the weirdest part is that this painless, seemingly unending gush of amniotic fluid releases itself and you possess no shut-off valve. Mostly everything else that exits various parts of your body does so with you acting as the prime mover, so to speak. Even (sorry for the squeamish) menstrual blood is generally accompanied by some cramping so you have some awareness of what's happening with your body.

This is the first in a series of lessons that you just don't have any calculated control over what's happening to you during birth. Your body just takes over and is all, "Okay, dummy, time for me to handle this now. You just go ahead and watch a movie or something to pass the time." The best you can do is manage your pain and push when your doctor tells you to, but even that is something that you have to figure out as you go. You can't really practice pushing, you know? Sure, you can, ahem, exercise the necessary muscles. But this is a production for which there is no rehearsal, a game for which there is no practice. You just get out there and GO.

I'm not sharing this to get mileage out of the only real war stories I have. Mostly, I'm trying to plan for this next one so that we can welcome the (hopefully less than nine pounds) guy with as little sturm and drang as possible. We're about twenty minutes closer to the hospital for one thing, which is a bonus. And then there's this induction thing, which will help us plan a date, time, and firm childcare options for the Boy and the Girl.

Of course, it also takes a little bit of the romance out of the whole thing when you pick a birthday. But man, I would really rather not encounter bloody amniotic fluid at midnight again.

Gives New Meaning to "Take It with a Grain of Salt"

Yesterday, Super Ninja and the kids spent some time with my Mom, brother, and sister whilst I and my Dad went to my niece's fashion show. We had a lot of fun! My niece is a seven-year-old with stage presence, and has been taking acting/modeling classes for the past six months. Yesterday was the pinnacle, the big finale, of these classes. I'm her godmother, and wanted to check out something in which she's invested so much time. She was pretty awesome, definitely in command of the runway.

Anyway, when my Dad and I returned to his house, Super Ninja was staring at the Boy, clearly confused. "You did what?" I heard him ask.

"I ate salt." The Boy looked a little pleased with himself, mostly, I think, because of the reaction he was getting from his father.

"You ate salt?" Super Ninja repeated. He wisely skipped the next logical question, which would have been "Why?" With the Boy, there is no "why." There is just exploration, experimentation, and the occasional NaCl overdose.

Instead, Super Ninja asked, "How much?"

The Boy answered, "Like this." He made a bowl out of one of his hands, then waved the other hand over top of it, almost like he was practicing some prestidigitation. But my Mommy Conversion Chart told me that One Boy Handful = 2 teaspoons. This is more salt than a kid his age is supposed to have in a week.

"Can I have some water?" the Boy asked. Still shaking his head, Super Ninja got up to get a glass of water, which the Boy downed in about three seconds. Super Ninja, having been around the kids for the better part of the day, took advantage of my presence and got outta there for some peace.

The Boy ran off to get the cheap kids' keyboard that my parents have in the toy box. I swear, this thing has two volume settings: off and obnoxious. Anyway, the Boy sits down with this keyboard, flips it on, and hits the Rock Demo key. As the thing is beeping and thumping away, he goes a little green and suddenly hurls all over himself, the keyboard, and the sofa.

Yeah, I think I salt overdose will do that to you.

Awesome. Five minutes in the house, and I'm cleaning up vomit. It was a notable day in our family, though: I think it was the first time the Boy vomited without immediately crying afterward. Silver linings, eh?

PSST: for any of you who know Super Ninja's parents, YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO TELL THEM THIS STORY. Our family passed a head cold around like a hot potato last week. His parents were convinced we were under swine flu attack, and this will serve only to inflame their anxiety. Not to worry, though: Super Ninja went to the doctor and, as he says, was diagnosed "as a candy ass" because all he had was a lot of post-nasal drip. No flu, no swine flu, no strep, no sinus infection. Just a cold, which means that we have escaped the dreaded H1N1 for now.

And for those of you who are wondering, little ol' pregnant me doesn't intend to get the H1N1 vaccine, even though the news and some doctors (not mine) are making it sound like you might as well stab yourself in the uterus if you don't get it. Based on what I'm seeing here, it looks to me like the H1N1 vaccine is currently being tested on 120 healthy women. That's right: is being tested. In the process of testing. Undergoing testing. There's no conclusion, no end results to comb through. The CDC's recommendation that THOUSANDS AND THOUSANDS of women should have this shot are based on the facts that (1) they are in the midst of testing it on 120 women, and (2) the regular seasonal flu shot, which is similar, BUT NOT THE SAME, hasn't caused problems with the pregnant women and babies who have previously had the seasonal flu shot.

I'm good with the seasonal flu shot. I will get it when doses are actually available. Know why? Because various incarnations of the seasonal flu shot has been given to millions of pregnant women over the years. Those percentages and precedents? I'm good with those. Besides, who wants the flu when pregnant? I know a lot of women who don't want the pregnant while pregnant, so adding a layer of influenza on top of pregnancy just doesn't appeal, you know?

But until there are conclusions to clinical trials, more women who have taken it with no ill effects, and more compelling reasons to take it than, "Well, studies have shown that pregnant women who get the seasonal flu vaccine tend to have babies who get the flu less, so there are probably similar benefits if you get the H1N1 vaccine," I'm not inclined to have the shot.

Ahem. I'll get off of my soap box now. Even if I sound like a suspicious cavewoman.

New Chapters

Sheesh, that sounds ominous, doesn't it? Some blogs that I follow have just faded away recently, and I want to assure you that "New Chapters" is not the opening salvo to a lengthy apology on quitting blogging or anything like that. Time, she is thin on the ground, and so the blogging has taken a hit.

Anyhoo, much has been accomplished over the past month. We moved. Moving back and forth to college? No biggie. All I ever had were books, clothes, a stereo, and some shelves. Moving into the apartment? Also not a biggie. My husband had most of the furniture, so again, I was just moving books, clothes, a stereo, and some shelves. It was once we were in the apartment that the Stuff grew and multiplied. With the luxury of space and semi-permanence, well, I didn't exactly become a hoarder, but if I was at all conflicted about tossing something in the garbage, I would keep it.

Even though I knew I did not want to keep everything we had in the apartment, what's a girl to do when she's seven months pregnant, her brain is smaller than normal, and she's doing most of the packing by herself because her husband is in the final throes of earning his Master's degree? So we ended up moving most of the junk from the apartment to the townhouse. Not the best idea, but hey, I just wanted to be done with the 1-bedroom apartment and moved into the 3-bedroom townhouse.

That was five years ago, and now, we have moved again. This time, to a five bedroom (six, if you count the sitting room attached to the master bedroom) single-family home. There is LOTS OF ROOM, many nooks and crannies, and darn it, I don't want to fill it with junk. I have discovered the beauty of eBay and of simply passing things we don't need to other people. And lastly, I have come to realize that it is OKAY to throw things out. When they have served their purpose and are beyond a point where they can be useful to anyone else, it is just ducky to toss them. In the most responsible way possible, of course.

There's something beyond the practicality of this, though. Our stuff, it can be viewed as an outward extension of who we are as people. I could get rid of that decanter with matching cordial glasses. But then I have to make a decision: am I the kind of woman who should have a decanter with matching cordial glasses, or am I not? The obvious answer is not, because honestly, I don't even own a bottle of liqueur, so it would really be incredible if the occasion came to pass where I would need that particular set of glasses.

One of my friends went through this recently, and she said that you have to get rid of the things associated with who you thought you would be to make room for the things associated with who you are. This really resonated with me. Don't get me wrong: who I thought I would be is not diametrically opposed to who I am. I'm pretty sure that if my fourteen-year-old self met my current self, she would not be shocked to pieces at how I am living my life. So, I s'pose I'll cherry-pick some concert t-shirts to hang onto, and I will forever cherish my Doc Martens whether or not I wear them. But a lot of the other stuff? It got the old heave-ho when we moved. And even more will hit the streets after the community yard sale next weekend. Then again, maybe I'll just donate it. I don't need the new neighbors judging me on what I'm offering up for sale...

I Didn't Need My Husband to Share This with His Co-Workers

But since he did, I'll go ahead and open it up to the blogosphere. The squeamish among you need not continue. Couple of things you need to know about the context of the conversation I am about to quote:

1. Last week, the Boy asked me how the baby that I am currently housing will get out of my belly when the time comes. All of the experts say to answer honestly, but briefly, so I said, "Well, Boy, the baby will get out through my vagina." After a pause, he said, "Really?" I assured him that it was true.
2. The Girl is potty training, so she knows the proper names for the bits involved in that particular endeavor.
3. We are moving to a new house and are foisting our children off on various friendly relatives and pals who are willing to take them while we pack like maniacs.

So, anyway, in the car yesterday, the Girl spontaneously says, "Mom? When the baby comes out of your tummy, it will come out of your mouth."

Before I have a chance to say anything, the know-it-all, five-year-old Boy counters, "No, the baby is going to come out of Mommy's penis."

"Oh," says the Girl.

"Well, actually George," I interrupt, not wanting my daughter to think I'm some kind of she-male, "I don't have a penis." So I correct him, and once again tell him what the baby's exit strategy is.

"Mooooom," he responds, "the Girl doesn't know what a pagina is."

"Sure she does!" I answer, knowing that the Girl and I have been covering this territory quite a lot lately during her potty adventures. She points out the general location to prove to the Boy that she knows just where her pagina is.

And then we started talking about a big blue truck driving by or something. No biggie. Later on though, when her aunt was helping her use the potty, the Girl looked her aunt dead in the eye and said, "When the baby is born it will come out of Mommy's pagina. It's gonna be weird."

Can't wait to hear what they talked about at daycare today.

Deciding What to Pack and Move, Deciding What to Toss

So, we're moving. Yay! Which means packing. Boo. On the plus side, we can actually pay people to haul our junk from Laurel to Catonsville. On the minus side, we actually have to find reputable movers who won't break our flat panel television and offer us $42 compensation.

The interweb has provided us ample opportunity to seek quotes for the big move. One of the sites I went to was really thorough -- I had to go through and check off all of the things we own. Inventories of one's life are kind of weird and thought-provoking. But man, I was totally distracted when I got to the "Miscellaneous" section of the list.

Clothes hamper...yep, got one of those. Coat rack...used to have one, but don't anymore. Coffin...

Coffin?


There are THAT many people in these United States who own coffins that they needed to give Coffins its OWN field? This isn't something that could have been covered in, say, the memo field at the end of the list where you are instructed to type up a list of anything that wasn't represented among the fields? I mean, ponder the mundanity of the rest of the items you see in this small selection...milk crates...tackle box...even TANNING BEDS have to be more common than coffins, right?

I Think the Baby Punched Super Ninja Last Night

I was lying down and feeling the grapefruit-sized ball that my uterus has become, and invited Super Ninja to give it a poke. This hardening of my belly (under all of the soft bits that my wispy doctor has been encouraging me to shed for several years now) is the first tangible evidence of the pregnancy for Super Ninja. Heretofore, the evidence has been behavior-based, such as my falling asleep at 8:30 p.m. while putting the Girl to bed, or turning a delightful shade of green when I catch the aroma of (my former lifeblood), coffee. So anyway, Super Ninja cupped the rounded (rounder?) part of my lower abdomen, leaned over, and said "Hello baby!"

And the baby punched (or maybe kicked) him.

He asked me, "Was that you?" And I had to think for a second, because honestly, the quickening flutter is barely distinguishable from a stomach that is grumbling because it is working REALLY HARD on that asparagus you had for dinner. But this was a direct, localized thump, which took me by surprise. I wasn't expecting to feel anything like that for another couple of weeks. Since this is the third pregnancy, though, it's apparently not unusual to feel things sooner.

My doctor DID tell me during my last exam that I was measuring large. Humph. It's a statement of fact, sure, but I don't know that anyone enjoys being told that they are measuring large. Unless he is a dude and his inseam is being measured. Otherwise, measuring large usually = bad. In this case it could just mean that I'm further along than originally calculated. Or that I'm having a huge baby. Or that I'm having a baby with a huge Irish head. We're going to cross our fingers and hope that it's just that I'm further along.

I'm due in mid-January, which is actually a stellar time to have a child, I think. No one's going to expect someone to travel with a newborn in January. People can come visit me all they want so long as they don't mind the explosion of baby gear all of the house, and they are willing to hold the baby, change a diaper, do my laundry...

Oof. Flashbacks to the laundry. See, you THINK it's just newborn laundry. How much can that be, right? The clothes are TINY. So even if you need to change the baby's clothes four times a day, that's still just a tiny heap of clothing, right? WRONG! Because you are not accounting for your OWN clothing that the baby soils when s/he spits up on you, whizzes on you, projectile poos on you, the changing table pads, the carpets... Oh, and if you co-sleep and the diaper is a little gappy, well, that's a whole load right there.

Anyway, THAT, my dear tens of readers, is my way of telling you that Super Ninja and I are having another baby. Oh yes. THREE. You might ask why we are having a third child when we have already successfully spawned replacements for ourselves on this here terra firma with the Boy and the Girl. The answer's simple: we needed insurance that we'll have a place to live in our dotage. Chances are better that a child will take us in if we have three, right?

Nah, just kidding. I think most couples have a notion of how many kids they think they can handle, and (if they are rational beings) they allow for a healthy dollop of experience to confirm or curtail that notion. And after having two children, we decided that three seems right for us.

The House Is On the Market! (Or, How to Drive Yourself a Little Bit Crazy)

Breaking news! We are selling our house. In this economy? Yes! You might ask, "Is the bank making you sell your house?" Nope! We are selling the house because we are morons and prefer to go through major life events at the absolute worst possible time in modern history. I'm pretty sure that if there were a nuclear holocaust, Super Ninja and I would probably turn to each other and say, "You know, maybe NOW is the time to start that vegetable garden."

We like where we live, honestly and truly -- our neighbors are stellar, our daycare provider is essentially a co-parent who is irreplaceable, we know the best places to shop, we're 25 minutes from downtown DC and downtown Baltimore (by car OR by train!), there are about a dozen parks and playgrounds within five minutes of our house, beautifully maintained walking paths and bike trails, AND there are ghosts in our town. You can't beat that kind of combination...

So why are we moving?

The motivation behind this is two-fold: (1) the public elementary school in our neighborhood kind of stinks, and (2) we just don't fit in our house anymore. Most folks, when you cite these rationales, totally understand. But I still feel really guilty. Why on earth, you might ask, would I feel guilty about moving for perfectly legit reasons?

Regarding the poor quality of the school... I work for an educational non-profit whose sole purpose is to help teachers teach better in an effort to improve schools so that every child can learn to his/her fullest potential. To turn a school around takes the investment of each parent and teacher in the school. I'm essentially abandoning the school by not even enrolling my kid there. I'm abdicating any responsibility to make it a better educational institution.

Look at the ego on me, eh? Like ONE parent who can contribute approximately 27 minutes per week would make it a Blue Ribbon school.

I'm not an elitist. I want my kids to go to public school. I want them to understand that the world is made up of a mix of people, and is not uniformly Catholic and white. This, I believe, will serve them best in life since we have no plans to move to a white Roman Catholic commune. And, I don't want subjects like History and English to be shot through with religious literature. Don't get me wrong; religion will be a part of their upbringing, but I don't want it to be the core of their education. All things being equal, I'd rather the money I spend on tuition go to a mortgage in a good school district.

As for the amount of space we need -- I think I equate living within one's space to living within one's means. And by buying a bigger house, we're not addressing the root of the problem. We're not horders or anything like that. But kids, wow, they come with a lot of stuff. And because of hand-me-downs, and possible future children, and visiting children, we actually have everything you'd need for kids from birth to about ten-years-old. And that, my friends, takes up a 10 x 10 climate-controlled storage room.

I'll squash the guilty complex the second our house sells and I can start freaking out about finding a new place. Out with the old stress, in with the new!

What My Last 10 Facebook Comments Would Have Been If I Weren't a Total Chicken

1. Irregardless isn't a word.
2. Maybe you spell check your status update before you post?
3. Things I Don't Think the World Needs to Know: that you're going to the gym, that you're going to work, that you're cooking dinner.
4. Perhaps you should revisit using that belly dancing photo as your profile pic.
5. I shouldn't know more about the non-functioning elevators in your office than I do about Uyghurs.
6. It is probably not a good idea to post a countdown to your vacation. It's more effective to post a "Looters Welcome" sign on your front door.
7. If you are my age and you are talking about your grandson, you really, really need to put more information in your bio. I'm too much of a lady to press you for details.
8. Quoting a song every day ≠ telling me what's a-happenin' with you today. Just tells me that you've got quite a lot of lyrics memorized. Or a database of lyrics at the ready.

Humph. I only got to eight? Must mean I'm not as grumpy as I think I am.

I Have a Theory about Why Married Couples on Reality Shows Eventually Divorce

Since I'm a sociologist* and all, I figured I'd throw my theory out there. Long-term marriage requires love, respect, and trust. This we know, right? There are even songs and psalms about it. Here's the thing, though. There's another massively important ingredient that is completely squashed in a reality-show environment: the ability to LET THINGS GO.

Say your spouse does something that bugs you... I'm just going to pick something at random... like, using paper towels to blow his nose instead of walking three feet to the box of tissues on the table and grabbing some of those. And when you go to get a paper towel, there's a lonely cardboard tube, but no towel. So you go to the pantry to grab a fresh role, only to find that the entire stock of rolls purchased for the week are gone.

In real life, you say something like, "Could you PLEASE not use the paper towels to blow your nose?" He says, "Oh, sorry." And that's that. In reality life, there's probably a montage of every time he's snatched a paper towel throughout the history of the show, and then when you go to the grocery store to get more paper towels, perfect strangers say, "I see you're buying more paper towels. I can't believe that your husband uses them to blow his nose!" And then you get annoyed all over again. Even if he changed his habit, the audience would still think he does it, and then that would grate on HIM. And because of the commentary, the couple feels like they need to put on an act and behave as if everything is OK, because then maybe everyone will think everything is OK, and then maybe you can work out your issues in a semblance of privacy without dealing with people asking if everything is OK.

Suddenly, these silly roommate issues become much bigger deals because entertainment and its composite parts never really allow the water to wash under the bridge. To continue the analogy, the water pools in a dam and eventually either washes over in a torrent or breaks through the cracks.

I know, I know, most of the time the couples involved say that the end result would probably have been the same, but that the reality show caused them to get there faster. And I doubt that anyone's marriage has ever reached the crisis stage because he leaves the toilet seat up or she never puts her clothes away.

But how do you know? I knew a woman who actually questioned her husband's love for her and commitment to their relationship because he continued to put dirty dishes in the sink when she had expressly requested that he not do that.

Ultimately, I think we all need to be able to just ignore some things, pretend he doesn't do this or she doesn't do that. Plausible deniability is also clutch. Filming your life allows for neither of these things.

*I have no degree in this subject area. I know people who have Ph.D.s in Sociology, though, so that qualifies me, don't you think?

Kids' Books that Creep Me Out

With a two-year-old and a four-year-old in the house, our family has been given an inordinate number of books. Books when they were born, books for their birthdays, books for visits from grandparents, hand-me-down books from my siblings, hand-me-over books from neighbors, books that were treasured by Super Ninja and came packed tightly among other presents from his parents.... Their collection of literature rivals ours. They've filled three bookshelves, and their over-sized books spill out onto the floor. WHY, by the way, are many of the books for little children HUGE? It would be like me reading a novel on poster board. This would make me very angry, and you wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

Anyway, Super Ninja and I are huge bibliophiles, so it's no surprise that our children are quite fond of the written word. The Boy, who will be five in July, is reading independently. I can't take credit (much). It's all due to his daycare provider. He's not fluent, yet, though -- there are a handful of words in each book that he doesn't know. When he stumbles over one, he pads over to me, looks at me, looks at the word, looks at me, looks at the word, until I tell him what the word is.* You can tell that he's filing it away for future use, and I very rarely need to tell him what a word is a second time. The Girl is doing that pre-reader thing where she kind of makes up her own story to fit the pictures.

Periodically, these lovely children of mine will bring books to me that I really, really don't want to read to them. Because (shhh) I don't like them. They creep me out or irritate me in a big, big way. And then I feel bad that I'm imposing my taste on them. I mean, listen, they ARE going to love Depeche Mode when the time is right. That's a given. But when it comes to books, they should have freedom of choice, right? So I read them. Reluctantly, but I read them. Why? Because nothing piques interest like parental disfavor, right?

Here are the books that I may have to disappear from the collections:

1) The Giving Tree, by Shel Silverstein. Thing one against it? The monstrous picture on the back of Shel Silverstein in all of his gap toothed glory. Seriously, the guy looks like a Island of Dr. Moreau combo of a serial killer and a jack o'lantern. Forget the graphics, though. Let's talk about the message in the book. A boy keeps asking things of the tree, and the tree keeps giving, and giving, and giving, until the tree is a stump. And STILL the tree gives when it allows the boy, now an old man who needs to rest, to sit on her stump. You may tell me that the book was originally intended to be an ecological statement about all that nature gives to us. That may be true, but most folks I know interpret the tale as a metaphor for the parent-child relationship. And if you take it that way, the parent gives until s/he's eviscerated. The boy NEVER says thank you, never says, "Gee, you know, I've asked so much of you, it's time I figure things out for myself." Oh no. He's like, "Awesome, you've given me everything you've got to give. Anything else?"

No, you greedy bastard. I'm JUST A STUMP.

2) Love You Forever, Robert Munsch. Okay, all of you weepies out there. I know that you lose it at the end of this book when the Circle of Life rolls along and the man carries his graying tiny mother to bed, just as she put him to bed when he was an wee babe. I get it. Know what I don't get, though? The page where the mother, under cover of darkness, props a ladder against her adult son's house, sneaks in through a window, and gazes at him adoringly. As a woman married to a man who's mother might do something like this, I shiver a little when I get to this page.

3) Rainbow Fish, by Marcus Pfister. I want my children to share. Really, I do. And I want them to be nice to other kids. But I don't think I want them to give of themselves until they are almost completely depleted just so that other kids like them. Isn't that what the message of this beautifully illustrated book is? The rainbow fish is a little hoity-toity about his sparkly scales, the other fish don't care for his big ego, so he gives away all of his scales to the other fish so that they, too, have sparkly beauty of their very own and will be nice to him. What are my kids supposed to do? Pluck strands of blond hair and pass them out at recess? I think that would earn them a trip to the guidance counselor for a psychological evaluation. "Hello, Mrs. Super Ninja? This is Mrs. X from the Boy's school? Yeah, he's got trichotillomania."

Awesome.

4) Any book that makes noise. Not that these books are all bad or anything, but the Girl has been keeping herself awake at night by secreting one of these under her covers and then pressing the buttons relentlessly. So, I am only against them because in the morning I get a grumpy toddler to, ahem, enjoy after one of her late night adventures.

I'm sure this list will grow, but those are the only ones... For now.

*Right now, the Boy is physically incapable of ASKING for help. We're working on this. I don't want to fall into a pattern where I'm helping him simply because he emits a grunt of frustration. Know what that gets you? A grunty kid whose mother interferes before he has a chance to solve his own problem, and then, before I know it, I'm in the middle of a pattern where he's allowed to be mad at me for not fixing his problem AND he's mad at me that I tried to fix it without really knowing what the problem is. No thank you. I want him to request help and to state what the problem is so that (A) I don't have to guess, (B) he doesn't take his frustration out on me, and (C) he acknowledges that I am doing him a solid by helping him, and that he should be grateful and not grumpy.

This and $4 Will Buy You a Latte

Okay, so I have a minor addiction to gossip rags. Eh, whaddya gonna do? I'm actually kind of weaning myself off them because (a) I feel a little dirty after I read an article with that! many! exclamation! points!, and (b) the people who pass for celebrities these days are...confusing. And I watch television, people. I read Entertainment Weekly. You have to work REALLY hard for me not to know who you are.

Anyway, the thing that's all the rage in the rags right now is that Marilyn is claiming that he and Gavin Rossdale were an item for five years. WHO CARES? Okay, I get why people care. Bisexual pop star. That hasn't been done since... Oh, wait, that's always been done.

But the thing that they are all snarkily commenting on is that Marilyn kinda sorta looks (or looked) like Gwen Stefani. The thing is, I feel for Gwen on this one. Not because her husband might've dated a dude, since that's probably something that was discussed early in their relationship. Also, I don't think that it's a big deal that people are saying she and a dude look alike. I'd argue that most women don't want to be told they look like a man, but have you seen Marilyn? He's rather pretty.

Nah. My empathy is that she's dealing with the fact that her husband [allegedly] has a type.

Have you ever met an ex of your significant other's? I have. I've met two, actually. First, there was his met-during-college-orientation girlfriend. She and I, well, we share some common physical features... Kinda short (me too), brownish, curlyish hair (hey...), a ready smile (wait a minute...)... Then I met his Winnie Cooper, and it was the same thing. Short, smily, wavy hair. Hmph.

See, I think we all want to assume that we are the one-and-only for our partners in life (or crime, if you like). That there's some crazy cosmic thing that puts us in the right place at the right time, and that your significant other is drawn to that special something that makes you YOU. I don't necessarily disbelieve that. But at the same time, it's kind of tough to ignore that your husband tried a couple of VERY SIMILAR people on for size before he got to you. That sounds gross, but you get my point.

The Dawn of a New Era

I did it. I went to a gym, AND I worked out. This has not occurred since 1997. You think I am joking, but I am not. Actually, those of you who know my tubby self personally will not be that shocked. The reasons for this gap in gym history? Well, in 1997, I was still in college, and there was a pesky mandatory gym fee. Master of Frugality that I am, I couldn't abide paying for something that I wasn't using, so I went to the gym. Not every day or anything like that, because Yates* sucked an egg as far as variety and availability of equipment. But I hoofed it over there often enough that I didn't feel the fee was a waste of dough.

Anyway, the Boy's gymnastics classes have sprung anew. (HA! Sprung! See what I did there? Gymnastics? Sprung? I am such a wordsmith.) Tiny Tumblers is held in a county-sponsored rec center. Sheesh, just saying the words "rec center" immediately makes me want to hold a fundraiser or something. Weren't rec centers in 1980's television always in dire need of funding or they'd be boarded up, shut down, and burned to the ground?

Anyway...

The fee for a family package was extraordinarily low. Less than Super Ninja spends on comics in a year. Less than I spend on coffee for a year. This struck me as a bargain, and was the push I needed to finally, FINALLY, join a gym. The other push being that the Boy has enjoyed slapping my tummy because it "makes funny noises." He does this while I am in repose, which does not do much for my repose. Or my body image.

My return to the fitness equipment went pretty well. I did about 45 minutes of cardio. Jeez. I hate myself a little bit for that sentence. I worked with a bunch of fitness tools early in my career, and my pathological need not to join in group think woke up the dormant slob who didn't want to be like them. I still don't want to be like them, but I don't want to be like this either, so I'll get over it.

I did not do the cardio intentionally. I sat down on at a recumbent bike and it prompted me to make an exercise selection. I went for "Fat Burner." It presented me with many hills and valleys. I hated the hills with the white hot passion of a thousand suns. But I got through my 25 minutes, and moved onto a treadmill. Again, I poked "Fat Burner." Again, many hills and valleys, and again, white hot hatred. Okay, okay, I'm being a little disingenuous. I only hated the first five minutes or so. Once the endorphins kicked in, I was fine.

Translation: I'll go again, and I don't feel like I wasted the cash on the family membership. Huzzah!

It's Super Ninja's turn to go tonight. Wonder what he'll make of it? I'm half-expecting he'll get tangled up in the equipment.

*That picture is a lying liar when it comes to representing my experience of the field house. Georgetown totally revamped the place AFTER I left. This is third on my list of things I wish had been done prior to my matriculation. The brand spanking new performing arts center (with a fully loaded shop and costume room) and the existence of a theater major taking second and first place, respectively.

Vacation Plans

I'm in desperate need of a vacation plan. I think the idea of a vacation may actually be more valuable than the vacation itself. It's gloomy here in the Mid-Atlantic today, my to-do list is WAY bigger than my to-done list, and there's this swirl of stressy stuff that we need to do (taking that first step toward trying to sell the house, figuring out where to live after that in the Baltimore Metro region, hoping that it will be the right size, in a good school district, etc.). In the face of all of this grown-up blah, I need to know that at some point, I will be able to check out of my daily routine and check into a different life for a week.

There are a couple of options on the table, some involving a second honeymoonish kind of thing to celebrate Super Ninja's and my upcoming 10-year anniversary*, and some involving a sunshiney family four-pack vacations to a place featuring Disney characters. It all depends on whether or not we can bribe, I mean invite, someone to watch the Boy and the Girl for an extended period of time. They are little delights about 89% of the time, so it wouldn't be the most onerous thing we've asked my in-laws....or someone else with no job obligations...to do. If not, then we'll bring 'em with us wherever we go.

Once I nail it down, though, I'm going to feel so much better. Like, "Suck it, car needing an oil change, I'm going to ENGLAND in July!" Or, "Eat it, kindergarten registration. I'm going to the BEACH this summer!" I do not have that yet, though, so I am the one who currently has to suck it. I do not relish this.

*10 years? 10 YEARS. I have been married to someone for a decade. That's weird, since I feel like I'm about 15 in many, many situations. Which I suppose makes Super Ninja a pederast. Wait 'til I tell him THAT at dinner tonight.

A Thoroughly 21st Century Problem

So, I was chatting with a friend last night on the phone, and we were comparing notes on our four-year-olds. The Boy is about six months older than her daughter, so there are some developmental similarities, such as the impulse to make observations. Like, "You have messy hair, Mommy." Or, "Daddy, that cowboy [on TV] has a fat tummy too." The Boy doesn't mean to insult us. He's just callin' 'em like he sees 'em.

As I was sharing the messy hair comment, my friend interrupted and said, "Yeah, I saw that on your Facebook page." It wasn't rude or anything like that -- she was laughing with me about our children's, ahem, honesty.

But, hmmm.

I realize that I'm overly connected. I've got a rarely-used MySpace page, Facebook, this blog, and Twitter. Being plugged into these devices satisfies some writerly impulses that I have. It's not like I think that I'm so very awesome that I need varying media outlets to spread my good word to the masses. After all, I clearly don't have enough original content, since I was telling a story that I'd already posted on Facebook.

So, here's what I'm pondering: I don't think that you can assume that people are actually reading your blog or Facebook or whatever all the time. I don't want to be one of those people who responds to an innocent question with, "Didn't you read my blog/Facebook/Twitter/MySpace?" Ugh. Double ugh. People who do that should be punched in the head forthwith.

But, then I run the risk of repeating myself. So what to do? Do I start tracking myself like a stand-up comic and retire bits that I've posted? Or keep the best stuff for my in-person communications?

Guess I'll just have to deal when people tell me that they've read it already. Here's hoping that they do before I bore them to tears with a rehash of a story.